Dark thoughts
I just went for a mammogram--about which, the less said, the better. (Actually, it's just not that bad; it doesn't take too long, the technicians are generally very good at what they do, and, really, it's a pretty minor inconvenience for the potential benefits.)
I'm generally pretty un-neurotic
in this one particular way: I don't, usually, harbor dire fears of getting cancer (or developing cancer, which seems to be much more apt in describing what actually happens when certain cells go haywire). But something about the lag time involved in getting these results--"If everything is fine, you'll get a letter in about 2 weeks. If there are any problems [with the images, with what the images show], we'll call you"--that creates a small but constant feeling of anxiety.
I'm generally sensible. I know that my husband's fate was one of cruel genetics--a congenital esophageal problem that they only now recognize as pre-cancerous--and, just maybe, an unkind universe. As such, it's not likely to be my fate. My relatives and recent ancestors are blessedly cancer-free. And yet. Something about this process triggers horrific visions of illness, death, and--most terrible of all--my daughter's
repeated orphanhood. In the weird calculus of adoption, she's already had 4 parents, and lost 3 (or had 6 and lost 5, if we count the foster family in China with whom she lived for at least 3 months). That's a success rate of only 25%, or less. Now I know that there are more positive ways to look at her history: to see those biological parents and foster parents not as "lost," but as having given her a great gift; to focus on what my husband gave her, instead of what he can no longer give. But late at night, when the irrational fears take over, that's not the story I tell myself.
In the light of day, my daughter is a survivor. She's strong, adaptable, and demonstrably resilient. I've provided for her; the will is signed, the custodial arrangements made. And I am pretty sure we won't be needing any of them. But still.
Labels: cancer widow, irrationality
Bad Dreams
Hi, my love,
I was going to tell you about our camping trip--and I will, I promise--but first I need to check with you about something.
I just awoke from two different bad dreams. Fortunately for you, I don't remember the first one. But the second was one of those that leaves a really bad feeling, the kind that lingers all day as the vague feeling that you've forgotten something terrible that's happened and are just about to remember.
In my dream, you were still sick, and very, very thin. You were mysteriously and not entirely happily outliving your prognosis; no one could tell why, or how long it might last.* You were telling me that while I was working, you had developed a new life, with new friends, and that you were going to leave me. I was angry. I was hurt. I begged you to tell me it wasn't true--that you loved our life together as much as I did. [For some reason, in that strange counter-logic of dreams, we were having this conversation in three different locations: a bedroom we never actually had; a gigantic thrift store in which our conversation was periodically interrupted by my selection of a tchotchke; and the front seat of your car. These locations appeared and disappeared throughout the conversation, as happens in dreams. There was also a period where we were driving through the thrift store in the car, while people pilfered things from our open trunk, but that seems beside the point, and it's too hard to explain the logistics of a dream.] But you insisted that you had new friends now--including a single mother named, as I recall, "Tanya." And that you had been living a whole separate life--nothing illicit, but unknown to me. I couldn't believe that after all our work to save you (even though, in the dream, you were less "saved" than enduring a kind of perpetual-cancer state), you were telling me that you didn't love me, and that only now could you tell me. And that you would be moving out, eventually. And that you had purchased a small white VW beetle (the old kind). [It was this last part that really got me; you loved those cars. It made the rest of the dream seem more real.]
And now I'm awake, and feeling shaky and doubtful, and wishing you were here to help me realize it was just a dream.
I find myself doubting my version of our life together, now that it exists only in my memory and in the sound-bytes I trot out for my friends: "My husband used to.... He was....He liked....He once said...." I feel responsible for keeping you around and on people's minds, as if that could give your life more meaning. (Presumptuous of me. You gave your life plenty of meaning). But I feel less and less sure of myself as the keeper of your flame. Did it all mean what I think it did? Why is it left to me to tell your story? And what if I get it wrong?
You did love me, right? And our life together, short as it was?
Please tell me this is all just a bad dream.
I love you,
your wife*For some reason, almost all of my dreams about you take place in this not-quite-happy imagined future, with you in this not-really-cured state.
Labels: bad dreams, cancer widow, letter to my husband
Low-rent Theology
This morning, over breakfast (cantaloupe and sourdough toast for her, cottage cheese with
incredible peaches for me):
Daughter: Mama, I think Papa is still at the doctor. (This is frequently her opening line when she wants to discuss him, death, and what it all means.)
Dorcasina: No, sweetie. You know Papa's not still at the doctor. You know that Papa died, and we don't ever get to see him again.
Daughter: Well, maybe he is in heaven!
Now, all the grief folks warned me NOT to tell her that Papa was "looking down" on her from heaven; they said that feeling of being watched by a dead person can be creepy...duh. So I've been pretty theologically noncommital about Papa's afterlife whereabouts, except that Snickollet and I just know that our husbands are hanging out together, and have probably hooked up with Badger's beloved Mr. Badger on occasion for some deeply existential talks, or to make farting armpit noises. Dorcasina, tentatively: ....well, maybe. What is heaven?
Daughter, cheerfully matter of fact: It's a big room where he can talk to other died [sic] people. And maybe play with toys.
Dorcasina (thinks):
Yeah, I bet he'd like that...Dorcasina: Uh huh. Who told you about heaven?
Daughter: Mrs. Teacher Lady! She said my papa is in heaven! And that he is happy!
Mrs. Teacher Lady is my daughter's primary teacher--which in Montessori world means that they are about to start their third year together. She has been unfailingly loving, supportive, and thoughtful in helping both my daughter and me. She's very active in her church, and makes private references to her faith. So I'm actually really okay with her providing what to her probably feels like a very neutral bit of information. She definitely doesn't proselytize, but she does feel that her beliefs are a big part of her life, and she's made that pretty clear in private conversations. I don't share most of her beliefs, but I really like her and trust her to keep the details of her theology to herself. I have also talked to her about my own spiritual beliefs, so I can see why she thought this would be okay to say to my daughter. And she's right. It is okay. My liberal/academic/secular/knee-jerk self immediately wonders "is this appropriate?" But in this case, it's just fine.Dorcasina: Well, he probably misses us
very much. But we want him to be happy, even though we miss him. Maybe heaven is like a park, so he can go outside?
Daughter: Yes! With other died [sic] people. Mama, can I have another piece of toast?
I wish I had a video of this for those folks who want to really
know what it's like to be a widow and a single mom.
Labels: bragging about my daughter, cancer widow, wisdom of the ages
Father's Day #2
Hi Babe,
We just endured our second father's day without the most important member of our family. On the surface, the day was just fine. But the emptiness was pretty much unbearable. If you had been here, you could have seen your daughter's first dance recital--perhaps the cutest thing ever, all those little girls (19 of them) in tutus and tap shoes, approximating the routine. We laughed, we cried--and in 4 minutes, it was over. You would have been so proud of her, and it would have meant so much to have you there, by my side, sharing the knowledge that our little girl is clearly superior to every other child in the universe.
Your lovely aunt and uncle made the long drive to be there, and took us all out to dinner between performances. It was generous and caring of them, and we are so lucky to have *one* small part of your family that really seems to understand what family means, and how to help us keep going without you.
Your daughter is four-and-a-half going on 14 now, and she really needs you. She has your appreciation for cars--she can recognize a Honda Element, a Subaru WRX, and umpteen other cars, and correctly attribute them to the folks we know who drive one. She is fascinated by insects, the moon, and gardening (god help me!) and she loves to cook. If you were here, you could cook with her. And snuggle with her--she's still a very snuggly girl. And you could give her that steady, accepting love that you provided so well--the kind I'm desperately afraid that I don't know how to give. She's a beautiful, amazing, quirky, funny girl, and it breaks my heart to have her miss out on knowing you, and sharing with you all the things that would bring both of you such delight.
I guess what I'm trying to say is we miss you. We love you. We think of you, talk of you, and celebrate you always. But it's just not enough, is it.
Love,
Your wifeLabels: cancer widow
What is it about dentists? (For Snickollet)
It's odd how synchronous my experiences are with
Snickollet's, even though I'm "ahead" in the whole widowhood game. Just last week, for example, at the dentist's office:
HYGIENIST: So, are you a married lady? [I kid you not--and she was about my age, which is certainly adult, but not old enough to ask a question in that way. I felt like I was having a conversation with Jimmy Stewart!]
DORCASINA: I'm a widow. My husband passed away [oh god--why can't I just say "died"?] about 18 months ago.
HYGIENIST: I'm so sorry. Do you talk about him?
DORCASINA: All the time.
HYGIENIST: Was it sudden, or could you see it coming?
D: [thinks to self: what difference does that make?] He had cancer.
H: I'm so sorry. What kind?
D: Esophageal.
H: (brightly): Oh. Was he a smoker? (emphasis on the last word, in a sort of "Aha!")
D: Ummmm. No.
---10 minutes later; in the same dental chair---
AVUNCULAR DENTIST: So, I understand you've been visited by tragedy recently...
DORCASINA: BUHHHHH..DNNNNNNNN...
AD: Was it cancer?
D: Yes. Esophageal cancer.
AD: Oh. Was he a smoker? (as above)
D: [wishing I had the nerve to say it aloud]
No. But he did a lot of heroin. And he never wore his seatbelt. And rode a motorcycle without a helmet. And we had lots of unprotected sex. With other people. So yes, if it makes you feel better, it really was his fault. As a non-smoker, clearly you are safe.----
Sallie Tisdale has a powerful piece in the most recent
Harper's about nursing on a cancer floor, the science of chemotherapy, and the psychology of cancer treatment. If you can bear it, especially if you know someone undergoing cancer treatment, it's required reading. Worth the cover price, and evidently not yet available online, except to subscribers.
Labels: cancer widow
